


binary evolution

by redpaint



Series: conflict resolution [4]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Enemies, M/M, Rivalry, Styrian Grand Prix 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/pseuds/redpaint
Summary: Seb wishes he could gather the energy to be angry enough for the both of them.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel
Series: conflict resolution [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548052
Comments: 19
Kudos: 66





	binary evolution

Seb heads back to his driver room not long after leaving it. It’s not a feeling he’s gotten used to, not even after all these years in the sport, all the ceremony and buildup of the weekend traded in for a short walk back through the paddock, followed by the roar of the cars on track. At least now the team area is practically empty, no need to fight through the swarms of forgettable celebrities and oil execs to find a quiet place to pity himself.

Their rooms this year are refurbished shipping containers, which seems appropriate. Ugly, hollow bodies, gutted every weekend and sent off to the next race to do it all over again. They make Seb feel just a little bit more like a consumer good, headed for the scrap heap when he collects enough chips and dings.

He gets changed quickly and lays on the physio bench while his phone buzzes in the corner. A few minutes later he hears the door to Charles’s room slam. It sounds more like a car crash than the incident that tore his rear wing off.

He feels somewhat compelled to go over there, if only to witness the meltdown that’s undoubtedly going to consume the team for the next week, the premature collapse of their young star. He thinks he could get some amount of satisfaction out of it.

Is this what Charles has made out of him— collecting petty victories, looking down at the only other person dug deeper in this pit than he is?

There’s a loud thump from across the patio, the sound of something hitting the corrugated metal wall.

Seb turns off his phone. He rummages in his bag until he finds an old World Cup cap, the only non-branded merchandise in the whole room, and pulls it down over his face. Fuck the press, fuck the team, fuck Charles, and fuck this race. Fuck looking for answers or solutions or apologies that do nothing to fix what’s actually wrong here.

He slips out of the paddock unnoticed, passes his motorhome and then keeps going, across the barren camping ground, over the street, and into one of the disgustingly bucolic fields that border the track. A small group of cows congregates near a barn, staring at him stupidly. He pulls the cap down a little lower and keeps walking.

It’s a childish thought, that he could somehow walk fast enough on these old man’s knees to reach the mountains that rise up behind the treeline, haul his body up and out of this valley by force of will alone. In the end, he barely gets far enough to escape the sounds of the track.

(The scream of a V6 travels a long way across open grass.)

For a satisfying moment he loses himself among the trees, but then his water runs out, and his feet hurt, and the sun starts coming in low through the leaves. The woods are certainly quieter than a slammed door or a smashed phone. It’s the kind of place he would want to be, if he were himself. At least he can identify that. Maybe all those months away did him some good.

By the time he makes it back, the first trucks are already leaving the circuit and hauling their burden to Hungary. Seb sticks to the edge of the deserted fan areas until he reaches his motorhome. The scarlet paint job looks a little more arterial in the late afternoon light. Charles is sitting on the front step, folded in on himself like he can’t even support the weight of his own shoulders.

“Did they send you to collect me?” Seb asks. Charles is blocking the door and shows no intention of moving. How long has he been here? How long did he spend in Mattia’s office, satisfying his near-heretical hunger for self-flagellation?

“They don’t know I’m here.” Charles’s voice is dry and thin, as though he’s the one who’s walked several kilometers without water. “Everyone assumed you just left.”

 _I bet they wish I did,_ he thinks. He keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t share Charles’s impulse for public humility.

Charles is usually all nervous, twitchy action, demands and humiliations all wrapped up in a kind of honest urgency. If he cannot tell the truth about how he feels, he usually can’t lie about how deeply he feels it. But now neither of them moves or speaks. The space between them is as empty as that open field, blown through by the distant sound of other people’s victories.

Seb wishes he could gather the energy to be angry enough for the both of them.

“Do you want to come in?”

Charles watches silently as Seb shoves his personal effects into his suitcases. This whole structure is going to come down any minute. It needs to be packed away for safe transport in tidy boxes. It’s urgency, of a kind— one that’s out of both of their hands.

It doesn’t take long to pack; he doesn’t have too many things. Charles chews on his nails with single-minded intensity. He’ll draw blood if this goes on much longer. Seb pushes his bags towards the door. “So?” Maybe Seb can rile Charles to anger. It would be preferable to whatever this is.

It looks like it might work. Charles finally stops staring, dead-eyed, out the window, and stands up. “I know you hate apologies,” he says, and hooks his fingers under Seb’s belt buckle. He lowers himself to the floor, a proper penitent. It’s a rehearsal of every other time they’ve done this, except this time they’ve both lost all interest in playing their roles.

Fucking Charles when things go wrong can feel like catharsis. It can feel like a private punishment, one only he can dole out to himself. It feels like _something_. This doesn’t feel like anything. It feels like dead weight on his zipper, Charles’s clammy hand with his red-raw fingers too self-absorbed to even think about what it means to touch someone else.

Seb pushes Charles back by the shoulder. Charles doesn’t resist. He can’t even bring himself to make eye contact. It’s a relief. Rapid-fire Italian comes from outside the motorhome, paired with the beeping of cargo trucks. Seb offers Charles a hand up, but he doesn’t take it.

When they’re angry with each other it feels like something might change. But what can change now? By all measures, Charles has won. He’s chained himself to this sick red machine and pushed Seb off the back. They both know they’re beyond the reach of superstitious rituals now. And besides, these blood rites never worked quite like they wanted them to.

**Author's Note:**

> _"According to modern theories of binary evolution, it is expected that neutron stars [the collapsed cores of massive supergiant stars] also exist in binary systems with black hole companions."_
> 
> comments & kudos are kept in a lovingly decorated scrapbook i intend to pass down through my family for generations to come
> 
> thank you to babypapaya and legendofthefireemblem for giving me feedback prior to posting!
> 
> tumblr - redpaint / [disclaimer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ioGoPOAxkCg)


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